n.i.m.b.u.s.

the Sage

I write these lines,
I stain this page,
With words verbose,
And thoughts of Sage.

It is not me,
'Tis but the Sage,
He dwells within my ribs,
Awaits the Stage.

With arms of shadow,
Long like vines,
He reaches out,
And with my mind he intertwines,

'No, dear Sky, I hear him say,
'Our character, he goes like this,
'And not the other way!'
And so he types, correcting.

The Sage, a recluse,
Writes with ink of truth,
He knows the world for it is,
His words are not obtuse.

And yet, this King of Words,
This Master of Ideas,
Hides amongst the thickets,
While I attempt to guess his fears.

Perhaps he is capricious?
Perhaps not craven he?
Perhaps he is but lazy?
But where lies hiding he?

Like gracious wind,
Or youthful love,
A moment's whim,
Is not enough.

I stare at paper,
Scrawled with lies,
And burn my notes,
And break my Sky.

Oh fool of fools!
Oh useless hands!
Oh why the Sage I met?
And not another man!

For having seen and smelt and lived,
the Sage's Greatest Garden,
The simple rustic roses I once grew,
Are petrified, and hardened!

I envy days of mediocre crafting,
When I was God and knew no other name,
But now I've seen True Art, the Everlasting,
Oblivious great freedom cannot be reclaimed.

The night grows black,
The silence thick,
So recluse Sage,
Begins his trick,

I smash my hands against the keys,
Accepting symphonies of thoughts,
Spewing forth, great majesty,
We are again cohorts.

I am now fervent, feverish, elated,
The Sage's darkness arms emerge once more,
Together, we are One: Creators and Created,
Creating Work far greater than afore.

Time, you miscreant, begone,
Dear Space, Reality, you are not needed,
The Sage and I, combined, we are the All,
The Universe has been succeeded.

Stories, poems, essays, prose,
The words now birthed,
Are not imposed,
They've always been, but now they are discovered.

The microscope did not create the atom,
The telescope did not create the distant stars,
Blood and elder memories pouring into stories,
The Sage and I, we merely open scars.

Although I will not know preempt,
But when the time is right,
The Sage's shadow arms will fade away,
Amongst the morning's light.

What then? What shall I do?
How does a bird pass time without her wings?
I rearrange and butcher Gold Creations,
until they truly sing.

The shattered pieces, all the wreckage,
Of what was once called Me,
Rearranging into someone slightly different,
Coalescing into new peculiarity.

I toil away, I scribble thoughts,
I dream, I breathe, I fight,
I do not wait, I do not idle,
While I live - I write!

Not every day is Inspiration,
Often it is slow attrition,
A slow and pensive journey,
Through the valley of cognition.

At times I light the fireworks,
A thousand boxes all aflame,
I pluck new thoughts, though many bad,
Without a shred of shame.

I poke, I prod, I bend and break,
The words I find, I chew,
I try the old, so much forgotten,
That it is now the new.

And so I wait, without the waiting,
Shooting at myself, the target now obscured,
I hone the Zen, I sharpen air,
My madness all but cured,

And when the time is right once more,
Although I predict none afore,
The Sage appears with shadow arms,
So we might recreate the World once more.